


Heirloom

by thefontbandit



Series: Silver & Gold [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefontbandit/pseuds/thefontbandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian and Kashek Adaar make a trip to the City of Chains while in the midst of figuring out their new relationship. A familiar face from Kirkwall's past makes an appearance as their guide while in-town, and a rather dubious impulse purchase at the Black Emporium leads to trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heirloom

**Author's Note:**

> Canon, what canon? 
> 
> Seriously though... I might be tweaking the canon timeline and progression of the Dorian romance a little more here, as it's moving both slower and faster than my personal in-game playthrough, depending on how you look at it. (Whoops).

_With only a few notable exceptions, these southern cities do all start to look the same after a time,_ Dorian thinks to himself. Jader is no different, as brown and dreary as the rest.

Not that the weather is helping. Though the downpour that accompanied Dorian and the Inquisitor all the way from Skyhold has eased, the colorless sky remains heavy with dark clouds that threaten to drench them again. Mud squelches beneath Dorian’s boots as he shifts his weight to lean on the low stone wall that separates the docks from the cobbled street. With a shiver, he pulls his oilskin cloak tighter around him while he waits. Kashek Adaar stands at the end of the dock, talking with the ship’s captain to secure passage before they board. Their small amount of baggage rests on the wide, waist-high wall beside Dorian.

Idly, Dorian takes the rare opportunity to openly admire the Qunari without inciting suspicious glares, as has happened all too often at Skyhold lately. The Inquisitor towers over the elven captain, even without the arch of his horns adding another hand or two to his height. The icy sleet and rain has left a damp sheen on his skin, and Dorian wonders how Kashek isn’t freezing to death with that bare head of his. The Inquisitor wears the serious look he always gets when dealing with anyone not yet considered a friend.

Still, for a moment Kashek's gaze slides back to Dorian, and his expression cracks a little, his mouth curving into a small smile.

Strange, to be able to share such glances without inciting gossip. Dorian hadn’t noticed until today how stifling the atmosphere of Skyhold has become, a slow oppressive weight that’s grown insidiously over time. This journey will be good for them, just Kashek and Dorian alone, well away from eavesdroppers and gossipmongers.

This private time is almost unheard-of, a rare luxury. The Inquisitor is always so busy at Skyhold, meeting with advisors, training, or consulting with Dagna on equipment. The man barely even has time to sleep these days, while they frantically prepare to march on Adamant Fortress. Dorian’s schedule is no less full, either, with his tutoring of apprentices and a rapidly-growing number of research projects.

What little downtime they’ve been able to find is fleeting, a few small moments stolen between their other commitments. It is unbearably frustrating, such tantalizingly brief kisses that leave Dorian aching for more, without the time or privacy to indulge themselves.

But now, a stroke of luck has placed them both here, on this journey together. It’s practically a vacation, really.

Or it would be, if it weren’t for the blasted boat.

Dorian’s stomach turns queasily at the sight of it, rocking even at anchor in the harbor. Oh, it seems a reliable enough vessel at least. Not that he knows enough of ships to truly tell, but it appears clean and well-maintained from this vantage. However, it isn’t the boat’s seaworthiness that gives him pause.

 _I’d be all too happy never to see a boat again,_ Dorian sighs. Unfortunately, it’s the fastest way to Kirkwall. An overland trek around the Waking Sea on horseback would take well over a week each direction, time they don’t have.

The Inquisition would normally have sent agents to retrieve this item, but the Antiquarian had requested the Inquisitor specifically. The cryptic letter had been written in a strangely brilliant purple ink, dotted with mysterious smudges and stains. It hadn’t even mentioned what the piece was, just that he had come into possession of a magical artifact of possible great value to the Inquisition. Xenon’s letter had stated he would do business with no lackey on this bargain. And so, Kashek set out to discover what strange oddity the Black Emporium holds.

It is a delay in their plans regarding the Grey Wardens, but the Inquisitor’s advisors have encouraged him to pursue this lead. They need time to rally and march their slower-moving forces to Adamant, giving Kashek a week to investigate the Black Emporium’s mysterious treasure before meeting with the rest of the army. After their visit to Kirkwall, Kashek and Dorian will sail back to Val Royeaux, meet with a small party, and ride for the Western Approach to rendezvous with the rest of the Inquisition before the attack.

The speed needed for the mission is the reason for their solitude. The Inquisition was reluctant to send Kashek away without _any_ backup, but two people could book passage far more easily and travel more quickly than a larger party. The magical nature of the item gave the Inquisitor the perfect excuse to ask Dorian along. Purely for advice on the talisman of course.

Dorian feels his lip twitch into a bit of a smirk. It’s actually rather charming, how Kashek thinks he fools anyone with his awkward attempts at discretion. Still, they carry on with the pretense, their brief liaisons conducted in secrecy; breathless stolen kisses in castle corridors, or gentle touches and quiet flirtation on a field mission, always out of earshot of their companions.

Dorian knows the concealment is for his benefit alone. The Inquisitor bears no shame in his choice, a fact that is all too obvious. Before, Dorian would have been even more circumspect than this, but as it becomes more of an open secret, he finds it bothers him a little less each day that others know. The fears that once plagued him shout less insistently now than they did before.

Even so, sometimes in the darkest hours of the night those worries rise up to claim him with brutal suddenness, slithering doubts and lingering memories of cruel words. It happens less often now than at first. Still, he wonders if he will ever be completely free, after a lifetime of rejection and disdain. It is taking time, learning to accept the possibility of an openly-acknowledged association rather than an affair cloaked in shadows.

Though truth be told, Dorian is still uncertain what this _is_ , precisely. It’s still too new, too strange. Only three scant weeks have passed since that first heart-stopping kiss in the library. Weeks that have flown by all too quickly and all too unresolved, the both of them preoccupied with Inquisition matters first and foremost. Still, this connection is most certainly _something_. Something very different than anything in his past, both gentler and somehow stronger at the same time. But what is the Inquisitor after, really? He claims to want more than just a distraction from their worries, not just a mere dalliance.

Does Kashek actually want a _relationship_? The thought stirs an uneasiness. Is that what Dorian truly desires?

 _Yes._ The answer comes without hesitation, startling in its certainty.

But dare he even hope?

He’d intended to settle those questions, the evening after that first kiss, when they both made the leap past the point of no return. But the advisors had kept Kashek in discussions long into the night, and they’d set out for the Western Approach the very next morning among a small company.

With the Grey Warden mess in the Approach and other responsibilities taking up nearly every available hour, there has been no true chance for a longer discussion, no way to get real answers. At least not without prying ears and eyes present. There is no such thing as true privacy in a camp of flimsy canvas tents, and their time at Skyhold has been frustratingly filled with task after task.

This morning’s ride to Jader would have been an ideal time to speak, if the sky had not opened up and pelted them with torrential rain that froze into treacherous slush beneath their horses’ hooves. No, today their entire focus had been on keeping their mounts from foundering on the mountain path down to the coast. The downpour had only ceased after they’d arrived in town and stabled the beasts for Inquisition scouts to retrieve later.

 _It’s almost as if the Maker himself is stepping between us_ , Dorian thinks uneasily.

Kashek finishes his conversation with the captain. They shake hands before the Inquisitor turns to walk toward Dorian and their small baggage. They’ve traveled as lightly as they could, but it’s impossible to avoid at least a knapsack apiece. Dorian’s bag is heavy with the weight of the gold he’s brought along as well. Foolish, perhaps, to carry so much wealth while traveling, but this may be the only time he has a chance at any of the Emporium’s treasures. So he has brought what money he has been able to save since working with the Inquisition. The pay is fair, if not extravagant, and he gets a small percentage of any wealth he personally helps to attain.

Dorian shoulders his pack, his hands itching for a staff. While it’s not truly necessary for spells, a staff does help focus them into something stronger. He feels naked without it. A small, irritating sensation in the back of his mind constantly nags him that he’s forgotten something. But they will be docking in Kirkwall, a city that is still all too wary of mages in its efforts to rebuild. Dorian visited the city in the past, but that was before the incident at the Chantry and the subsequent mage uprising. Varric had warned them both that Kirkwall would be unwelcoming enough to a Qunari after their recent troubles, but there was little they could do about Kashek’s appearance. Dorian’s status as a mage, however, could be concealed.

 _Like a cowering southern apostate,_ he thinks with disdain. No staff, and garbed like a common Fereldan to boot. He’d even combed his hair into a less-flattering style, but balked at shaving. _The things I do for that man._ He sighs.

Kashek reaches him and gathers his things. The warrior has made concessions of his own, forgoing his heavy mail in favor of lighter leathers, and leaving his shield behind. His sword, however, was non-negotiable. It is the best compromise. Though they do not intend to engage Venatori or Red Templars on this journey, they need at least some lighter gear in case any stray brigands decide to challenge them.

Their plain garb betrays no connection to the Inquisition, no heraldry or crest. As long as the Anchor doesn’t flare up at an inopportune time and bathe the Inquisitor in that eerie green glow, they are as inconspicuous as a pair including a Qunari could be. Just two more refugees escaping the chaos.

“The ship embarks in an hour,” Kashek says, hefting his pack. “We can board now, unless there’s anything else you need in town?”

Dorian shakes his head. “No.” As they approach the ship, he stares it down as if his willpower alone could stop the vessel’s ceaseless rocking.

Their quarters, if they can even be called such, are narrow bunks bolted onto the walls of a tiny cabin, stacked atop one another like bookshelves. This is not a passenger ship by nature. It is a merchant vessel, hauling goods across the Waking Sea. But apparently the entrepreneurial captain had decided he could make some extra coin by cramming both the mates into one cabin and piling the other with bunks for passengers.

There are two other passengers on this journey, a pair of human women who look alike enough to be sisters. One nods nervously from her bunk across the small aisle, while the other’s gaze skitters away from them as she stows her pack underneath their stacked bunks.

“Can you even fit on that?” Dorian asks, pointing to the narrow bed.

“I’ll make do,” Kashek says. “It’s not luxury, but it is the fastest passage to Kirkwall.”

That leaves the uppermost bunk for Dorian, he supposes. No way the Inquisitor would fit on the top one.

As he regards the setup with dismay, Kashek offers some consolation. “The captain said we can be out on deck during daylight hours, as long as we keep away from the crew and stay out from underfoot.”

Probably a good thing, considering that even the light swaying of the ship at anchor is already becoming unpleasant. These close, dark quarters aren’t helping.

Kashek is already stowing their things in a chest tucked under the bed. It’s not tall, but the sturdy box is long enough to hold his sword and pack. He holds out a hand for Dorian’s bag, then stashes it as well. As the Inquisitor latches the provided padlock with its key, Dorian casts a wary glance at the two women and murmurs, “Let me look at that?”

As he twists the key and removes it, Dorian casts a small bit of magic on the lock. Nothing as showy as a lightning ward, just a small bit of energy that pushes one of the innermost pins out of alignment and holds it there. Even If someone on board has a duplicate key or lockpicking skills, there will be no opening that without arcane knowledge. Or a very large hammer.

He places the key back in Kashek’s hands, but murmurs softly under his breath. “You’ll want me to open that later.”

The Inquisitor gives him a long, knowing look, then stashes the key in an inner pocket of his jacket before standing. “I need some room to stretch out without feeling like my horns will scrape the ceiling,” he says. “I think I’ll go out on deck, if you’ll join me?”

“Gladly,” Dorian replies. The dimness of the cabin is already starting to feel stifling, his stomach turning uncomfortably.

Kashek smiles briefly, then leaves the small, cramped space for the open deck, Dorian right on his heels. The air, while one could not call it “fresh”, is at least cool against his flushed skin. It’s perhaps the only time he’s grateful for cold, when it helps settle his queasiness.

Wordlessly, they find a clear bit of railing that seems out of the way, toward the back of the boat. Leaning on the worn wood, Dorian stares out over the water, but the horizon only bobs dizzyingly, the cool gray sunlight glinting painfully on the waves. Wonderful. Not even out of port yet and already miserable. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

He instantly regrets that decision. Why are there so many stomach-churning smells here? The fishy, pervasive stench of the sea air, the earthy, smoky scent of oakum and tar, and at least one sailor upwind who could use an introduction to soap.

His bile rises, and he clenches his teeth to keep his nausea at bay. An unpleasant pounding has started in his head as well. And still, the deck beneath his feet rocks, a relentless never-ending motion. Not for the first time, Dorian wishes he’d shown a proclivity for healing magic.

“Dorian.” Kashek’s voice is pitched low, but heavy with gentle rebuke.

He turns his head, the motion causing his vision to swim a little before focusing on the Inquisitor’s concerned expression.

The too-perceptive Qunari sighs, a sadness touching his eyes. “You’ve mentioned taking sea voyages before. Why didn’t you tell me you get seasick?”

It’s made Dorian irritable, his queasiness. _Because I don’t want to look weak. Because I don’t want to worry you. Because it’s not your concern._

He could deny it. But Dorian had long ago decided there will be no lies, not with Kashek.

“I can handle myself,” Dorian replies, the response sharper than the Inquisitor’s concern deserves.

Kashek leans on the rail beside him. “I never said you couldn’t,” he points out softly. “But just because you _can_ handle things on your own, that doesn’t mean you always _should_.”

“And what could you even do anyway?” Dorian’s voice is cutting, his tongue razor-edged. Instinct. _Too close, push him away._ His nerves worn raw by his physical discomfort, Dorian resorts to the old, familiar prickliness that will keep the Inquisitor at a safe distance.

Another man might have bristled at his tone, might have walked away. But not the Inquisitor. Instead, Kashek regards him with a quiet wariness for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is calm. “Give me your hand.” He holds out his own right hand, palm up.

When Dorian stares blankly at him, hesitating, the Inquisitor’s golden-green eyes dance with mild amusement. “And what,” he asks, “do you fear I will do here, on the deck of a ship covered with strangers?” His mouth curls into a small smile. “Just trust me?”

Spoken so casually. _Trust me_.

After another moment’s hesitation, Dorian sighs and places his hand in the Inquisitor’s gloved one. The Qunari’s motions are not intimate, not here. His touch is gentle but clinical, practical. With a faint smile, Kashek holds Dorian’s wrist gently in place with his right hand. With his other, he measures a distance with his fingers and presses a spot on Dorian’s inner arm. It is a steady pressure just shy of causing pain, a few inches from his wrist.

It takes a conscious effort not to flinch away. “What are you doing?”

“Just give it a moment,” The Inquisitor replies, continuing to press firmly.

After a long, awkward pause, Dorian’s nausea suddenly and surprisingly eases.

“What--?”

The Inquisitor grins. “Kaariss used to get painfully seasick, on the rare times we had to take ship.” he explains. “Ashra knew some healing and taught us this trick. Not a complete cure, but it helps.” His sympathetic gaze is piercing. “If you’d told me, we could have stocked up on mint leaves, too. Chewing them also helps.”

Suddenly, Dorian feels foolish. Would it kill him to ask for help every once in a while? Still, he doesn’t want to feel indebted to anyone, not even the Inquisitor.

And yet, it is nice to be able to think again without his breakfast threatening to reappear.

It’s also jarring, this reminder of Kashek’s previous life. An obvious fact, but the Inquisitor speaks of it so rarely that it’s easy to forget. They all led very different lives before the Inquisition, and not everyone was as willing to leave their past behind as Dorian had been.

“You don’t talk about your old mercenary group much,” he says quietly. He resists the urge to pull his hand free of the Inquisitor’s, still nervous about even such an innocuous touch here in public.

“It’s… difficult,” Kashek answers, his voice heavy. “Some didn’t survive the chaos at the Conclave. Ashra didn’t make it. Kaariss did, though. Apparently he’s composing an epic about me.” Sadness mingles with fondness in both his voice and his eyes.

“Do you miss them?”

“Yes. Sometimes.” The Inquisitor lets up the pressure a little, rubbing the same spot in small, circular motions. “Shokrakar sends letters to keep me updated on what’s left of the crew.”

“Would you go back, if you could?”

Kashek meets his gaze squarely, a smile on his lips. “No.”

His heart misses a beat. The implication is clear, and Dorian can’t stop himself from answering the smile, if faintly due to his lingering dizziness.

“But you still envy them, don’t you?”

“I do,” Kashek admits. “Their lives are simpler, continuing on as they always have. Kaariss’s terrible poetry, Hissra’s tall tales, Kalo-var’s obsessive collecting of knives. For them, nothing has changed. They don’t bear the fate of the world in their hands, or face the decisions that could condemn innocents to death.”

“It is a harder life,” Dorian admits, “but not all bad.”

“No,” Kashek replies with a playful smirk. “Not all of it. Except maybe when certain mages get cranky and a little snippy.” His tone is light, teasing.

“Well, I can’t be perfect all the time,” Dorian returns Kashek’s easy grin. “It sets too high a standard. Disheartening for everyone else, you know.”

The Inquisitor laughs. “In better spirits, I see.” He lifts his hand and loosens his grasp on Dorian’s wrist.

“Yes. I… thank you.” Dorian pulls his hand away, but gently, setting it atop the railing.

For a few moments, they watch the sea in silence, until Kashek speaks.

“What about you? You only talk of your homeland in generalities, never of the friends you left. Do you miss them?”

Dorian’s smile turns grim. “I left behind precious few allies, let alone friends. Felix was perhaps the only true friend I ever made, back home.” A sudden pang, an empty space where the boy had been, a tiny piece of himself gone. But Felix had been granted more time than any of them had ever dared hope. He had been at peace when the Blight caught up with him. But his absence still aches.

“No. I miss… _things_ about Tevinter. The music, the wine, the weather. But friends, no.”

“It seems lonely.”

“Perhaps. One learns to fill the space with what’s available,” Dorian replies softly, feeling his mouth curl into a familiar wry twist.

“I hate that smile,” Kashek sighs, leaning his arms on the railing beside Dorian and staring out over the water.

His pride wounded, Dorian turns to scowl at the Inquisitor. “What?”

“You smile when you speak of pain,” Kashek says bluntly, casting him a brief glance before watching the waves again. “Not always, but often enough. You’ll display anger, or disdain, or sorrow for others. But you only show your own pain when it’s more than many could bear. Instead, you smile and pretend the things you speak of are not terrible.” He sighs, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “It hurts, to know that you’ve lived a life where it was unsafe to just… feel.”

For once, Dorian cannot think of a quip, no flippant response. So he stands in silence, trying to sort out the sudden, overwhelming tightness in his chest, the stinging sensation behind his eyes.

 _So much compassion can’t possibly be real_ , he wonders. How can one person feel so much empathy and not be consumed by it? All of Dorian’s casual artifice, and Kashek saw through it so easily, more so that Dorian himself ever did.

Will he ever become accustomed to the attentions of such a kind, patient soul?

Words aren’t enough really, not to express the strange and consuming surge of emotion he feels. A tiny voice within him reminds Dorian there’s a name for this feeling, but he brushes it aside. _No, not yet._

Instead, heart pounding nervously, his hand moves on the railing, sliding the few inches and lifting to rest atop the Inquisitor’s. It’s the first time Dorian has been the one to initiate contact, at least where others could see. But it feels… right, somehow. Oddly enough, the display of affection is easier here, in front of strangers, than it would be at Skyhold.

Kashek startles slightly. Then, as if afraid of sudden movements, he slowly turns his hand and laces their fingers together, still watching the ocean. Afraid that meeting the Qunari’s gaze might be too much to bear at this moment, Dorian follows suit. The motion of the waves is much less dizzying now, as he stares out across the sea. But out of the corner of his eye, he doesn’t miss the flush high in the Inquisitor’s cheeks, or the warmth of his smile.

 

* * *

 

 

It is still a painfully long journey. The weather holds, ominous heavy skies that seem to promise rain, but never make good on the threat. The air is damp and chill, the ocean choppy and the wind prone to sudden icy gusts.

Though Kashek shows him how to find the pressure point to alleviate his seasickness somewhat, it is still a constant cloud of unpleasantness that clings to him. He can barely manage to drink enough water, and even the taste of their simple travel fare turns his stomach.

And there is no chance for a truly private discussion aboard ship, either. They avoid speaking of the topic that obviously hangs between them. Neither do they talk of Inquisition matters, wary of eavesdroppers.

Instead, Dorian spends much of his miserable two-day journey leaning on the railing of the ship, as far out of the way as possible. Kashek often accompanies him, and they spend the time in companionable silence or discussing frustrating trivialities like the weather. That is, when the nausea isn’t so pervasive that speech is a troublesome effort.

At long last, a blessed line of darkness emerges on the horizon, eventually revealing the Twins that guard the channel to Kirkwall’s harbor as they grow closer.

“The City of Chains looks as inviting as ever,” Dorian remarks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Beside him, Kashek gazes out at the immense, imposing statues, a faint frown on his face. “Never my favorite city,” he agrees.

“Still, back in the Marches,” Dorian points out as the ship sails into the channel. “Closer to home than you’ve been since this whole mess began.”

Kashek grimaces. “I haven’t been to Kirkwall since before the Qunari invasion,” he admits. “I don’t know how people will respond to a Qunari in their midst, even a Vashoth.”

“Well, lucky you’ve got me to sweep in and save you, should you face any undue harassment,” Dorian teases.

The Inquisitor’s frown softens, a wry chuckle escaping him. “My hero,” he smirks with a sidelong glance.

“Ooh, ‘hero’. I do like the sound of that. Much more flattering than ‘pariah’, I think.”

Kashek laughs again. “Still, we’d best go fetch our things before we dock. I’m sure you’ll want off the ship as soon as possible.”

“Though I don’t particularly relish the thought of visiting Kirkwall again, I must agree on that point,” Dorian responds, straightening from the railing and stretching. “I am quite eager to have solid ground underfoot again.”

“And I’m curious about what you’ve done with that padlock,” Kashek smiles, pulling the key from the inside pocket of his jacket and handing it over.

“Nothing much,” Dorian admits, “just a little insurance against tampering.” He holds up the key. “But yes, let’s fetch our things and get off this blighted vessel.”

* * *

 

 

Dorian is prepared for the disconcerting way the ground seems to sway when he disembarks, and the unpleasant aroma of Kirkwall’s docks. He does not expect to be greeted by the city guard.

Well, only one guard, but she is imposing enough.

The woman is tall, standing a little taller than Dorian himself. Her expression is grim while she stands facing the dock, arms crossed. The plate mail uniform of the guard shines, immaculately maintained, while a short brush of bright, red-gold hair ensures she’d stand out even in civilian gear.

For a moment, Dorian would like to believe she is merely observing the commerce at the docks, until her gaze locks onto the Inquisitor.

“Looks like trouble,” Dorian mutters as they approach, his nerves all shouting a warning. Realizing he’s starting to pull Fade energy out of habit, he relinquishes it with an effort. Engaging the city guard in battle would be outright foolishness, but instincts die hard.

“What does the guard want with us?” Kashek asks under his breath.

“I believe we’re about to find out.”

The woman steps forward, her eyes guarded. “Inquisitor?”

There’s little use in denying it at this point. Kashek nods with a sigh. “Is there something wrong, ma’am?”

The guard snorts, shaking her head. “Ma’am. Please, call me Aveline, or Captain if you must.” She uncrosses her arms and steps closer, her voice lowered to avoid eavesdropping. “The dwarf did not lie, it seems.” With a weary sigh, she explains. “Varric sent a bird before you even left Skyhold, warning me of your arrival. _‘Look for the Arishok, but cuddlier_ ’, were his exact words.”

Dorian can’t suppress the snort of laughter at the dwarf’s description. “Oh, that’s excellent. _Cuddly_.”

The Captain’s gaze slides over to Dorian. “He also mentioned _‘a strutting peacock, poorly disguised as a wren’_. As glib as ever, Varric.” She grimaces and shakes her head. “But as to why I’m here. I fear the sight of a Qunari may make some of our citizens a bit jumpy, so I will be accompanying you during your stay here.”

“I assure you, we won’t start any trouble,” Kashek says.

“To be frank, Inquisitor, it’s not you I’m worried about.”

"Captain,” Dorian responds. “No offense intended, but the Inquisitor and I are capable of handling ourselves."

"I'm certain you can. And then I'm stuck dealing with the aftermath and the paperwork. No, I'm hoping the presence of the Guard Captain will be enough to deter any trouble before it starts. You are stuck with me while you travel through my city, and that's the guard's final word on the matter."

And yet again, Dorian sees any possibility of privacy snatched away from them. He opens his mouth to protest, but Kashek holds up a hand to forestall him.

"It's okay, Dorian. It can't hurt."

With a sigh, Dorian relents. The Guard Captain clears her throat. "One more thing. You'll be guesting at my home this evening. I've already booked passage to Val Royeaux on a ship that leaves tomorrow morning, by Varric's request. But it will be safer tonight in my home than an inn. Kirkwall’s streets can be less than friendly after dark, and I've seen enough drunken brawls for a lifetime. I don't need to be called to some tavern in the middle of the night because some dolt wanted to make a name for himself by attacking the Qunari."

"We couldn't impose," Kashek begins, but the woman cuts him off.

"No, I insist." Her voice is firm, brooking no argument.

"Very well. Thank you for your hospitality." The Inquisitor nods graciously.

Inwardly, Dorian has to smile. Josephine would be proud. Once, the Inquisitor would have brushed off the invitation with a brusque 'Thanks', but now he is the very picture of diplomatic eloquence. Dorian makes a mental note to tell the Ambassador that her lessons have paid off.

"I assume with the tight deadline, you'll want to visit the Emporium immediately? Or would you prefer to visit my home and wash up first?"

Oh, a bath sounds practically heavenly. Dorian already knows what Kashek's response will be, but part of him pines for a bath. It feels as if the sea air of their voyage has left a dry, crusted layer of salt on his skin. Disgusting.

"We'll go immediately," Kashek replies, just as Dorian knew he would. Business first, as ever.

"This way, then," she says before Kashek can even retrieve the written directions that accompanied the Antiquarian's letter.

"You know the way?" The Inquisitor asks.

"I accompanied Hawke to the shop enough times. Yes, I know the way."

 

* * *

 

The Captain leads them through city streets far different from Dorian's memory of Kirkwall. The damage from their recent troubles is still in the process of repair, with some buildings boarded up or missing walls. Other structures are obviously new, sometimes entire city blocks that have been rebuilt.

They descend into the deepest parts of Darktown, still as dismal as he recalls those cramped underground pathways. Eventually, Aveline leads them straight through an illusory wall. It's a very compelling bit of trickery, the magic tingling against Dorian's skin as they pass through it. Beyond the false wall is another small maze of corridors. They pass through four more hidden doorways, all cleverly disguised with impeccable spells. Given the time, Dorian would love the opportunity to study them, to dissect the magic holding the illusion together. There's even a faint feeling of resistance when he starts to press through them. Absolutely brilliant.

As they grow closer, his heartbeat accelerates. Dorian knows a number of well-connected magisters who would give their firstborn child for access to the legendary magical riches of the Black Emporium. He has no doubts that more than a few of the members of the Magisterium are already on this exclusive client list, but it would probably burn their parchment to know the outcast former heir of House Pavus is about to witness their secret treasure hoard.

At a final doorway, Aveline stops. It’s entirely nondescript, a plain, heavy wooden door like any other.

“I’ll wait out here,” she says. “Place gives me the creeps.”

Kashek casts Dorian a single glance. “Ready?”

Thrumming with excitement, Dorian tries to hide his eagerness. He nods, and Kashek turns the doorknob.

Beyond the door lies a single short bridge, acting as a corridor and flanked with clutter. Beyond is the open main room. The sweet, papery aroma of old books hangs heavy in the air, along with the musty, nose-tickling scent of dust. At first glance, the place is rather smaller than Dorian would expect an ‘Emporium’ to be, but the array of wonders crammed into every available bit of space is nothing short of astonishing. The air practically hums with magic. Such treasures, and many of them stacked in haphazard piles or stowed under tables like common trinkets.

And the proprietor himself is a marvel as well. The immense dais takes up most of the center of the room, the withered form of the Antiquarian huddled on a chair easily twice as large as Skyhold’s throne. The creature atop the chair is as unsettling as he is enormous. One shriveled shin – of which there are at least four – is as tall as Dorian himself.

“Welcome, Inquisitor. And your… guest.” The dry, sepulchral voice clearly emerges from the creature, though it is quite obviously likely deceased. His mouth does not move. Indeed, not a whisper of motion comes from the seated husk. Dorian wonders at the power of the spell that must be binding his awareness here for so many years, a possible form of necromancy he’s never seen. He itches to study it.

Obviously, the Antiquarian did not personally pen the missive they received. Which of the strange beings in this room took the dictation, Dorian wonders? The golem? Or the eerie, silent child that watches them with dark, expressionless eyes?

“We received your letter,” Kashek says, standing before Xenon and gazing up into the shadowed face of the creature.

“Indeed,” Xenon replies. Then suddenly, loudly, “Urchin!”

The child steps forward and collects a small wooden box from a nearby table. How the Urchin knows which box, among the scattered clutter, is a mystery. She holds out the box to the Inquisitor, who takes it carefully. Wary, he glances to Dorian.

Reaching out a single hand, Dorian lets his fingertips hover near the box for a moment. There is a faint thrum of energy from whatever is inside, but he senses no wards on it. He nods.

When Kashek opens the box, it reveals a pendant on a gold chain, resting on a bed of rich black velvet. Simple in style, the setting contains a single large black opal, a smooth, iridescent oval as long as Dorian’s thumb and perhaps half that width. A faint greenish glimmer dances in the depths of that stone, a hue Dorian knows all too well.

“It suppresses nearby weaknesses in the Veil,” The Antiquarian croaks. “An ancient and long-forgotten magic.”

Kashek lifts the pendant in his left hand, then gasps softly, dropping the stone back into the box in his surprise. “The Anchor. It’s… quieter.” He flexes his hand experimentally.

Dorian instantly grasps the implications. “If I can analyze this, Dagna and I may be able to create something to close rifts, without needing your mark.” Then, the realization dawns. “We might even be able to slow the growth of the Anchor,” he whispers. “Maybe suppress it entirely.”

Despite all of his research, even reaching out to Maevaris and requesting her aid scouring the libraries of Tevinter, Dorian has been unable to find anything useful that relates to the Inquisitor’s mark in particular, or the orb Corypheus carries. Just frustratingly unrelated studies and theories that are tangential at best. It involves digging through copious amounts of Chantry doctrine on the Fade and the Veil, trying to decipher fact from fabrication. There’s almost too much information on the Fade, so much that trying to find something specific to the rifts is like a search for a needle in a haystack.

He’d even resorted to asking Solas, but the elven mage was frustratingly distant and dismissive, assuring Dorian that the mark was as stable as he could make it. Which left Dorian to his own devices in his studies.

The best clue he’s found are the odd ancient elven artifacts hidden all over Thedas. Once activated, they work to strengthen the Veil, if Solas is to be believed. But Dorian cannot study those at his leisure like this amulet. It provides a new clue. If he can analyze it, break down how this gem stabilizes weaknesses in the veil, it could be the key to preventing new rifts, or combating the abilities of the orb.

Xenon did not exaggerate when he said his new acquisition would interest the Inquisition. It could change everything.

“Do you really think you could find another way to close rifts?” Kashek asks quietly. He does not mention the mark, but he still stares at his palm with thoughtful, pained eyes.

Dorian reaches out toward the pendant, but curls his fingers away before touching it. Still, the energy dances around it, a faint tingling in the air like static electricity. He can almost feel it arcing toward the mark on the Inquisitor’s hand.

“I’m certain I could learn something of value, given the time to study it. The Anchor acts like a key in a lock, or more like a puzzle piece that fits into the jagged edges of rifts to smooth them over. If this does the same thing, I can determine the shape of the puzzle pieces, metaphorically speaking. Once I know the shape of both sides, we could theoretically use it to both calm the Anchor and seal the rifts as well. Whether Dagna could replicate the results in practical form would depend on resources and budget.”

Kashek stares silently into the gem for a few moments before he speaks. “What is the price?” The Inquisitor asks, still staring at the glowing gem with a spark of hope in his eyes.

“Sixteen thousand.”

Dorian cringes. Xenon does not haggle. It is a large sum, but the Inquisition can afford it. _Will_ afford it, for an artifact this important. Still, he suspects the Antiquarian is giving them a significant discount nonetheless. Perhaps it’s altruism, for the good of the world. Perhaps it’s a frequent buyer discount. He knows the Inquisition has purchased a number of other oddities from the Emporium as well.

Whatever the reason, Kashek agrees instantly.

While they sort payment, Dorian finds his eyes wandering the clutter of the Emporium. A priceless hoard of magical rarities lie scattered haphazardly like useless knick-knacks. On one nearby table, he spots two tomes some magisters would give their arm to possess, stacked under a veritable tower of small boxes. One of the boxes bears carved writing in a form of Tevene so ancient he can only vaguely decipher the words “fire” and “moons”. The stack of boxes leans on a glittering helm so gaudy it can only be Orlesian, worked in the semblance of a great bird and topped with a crest of brilliant orange feathers.

Beside that is a pile of jewelry, all tangled together as if someone upended a jewelry box and let things lie where they fell. Glimmering silver and gold pieces, gems that flicker with an inner light, a necklace made from the immense claw of some creature and carved with scrimshaw.

Then his gaze settles on one piece of jewelry at the corner of the pile. _Kaffas, it can’t be._

Dorian takes a step closer, squinting in the dim light. Lying innocently among the pile of wonders is a simple gold ring, heavy but bereft of gems. It is a signet ring, and bears a crest all too familiar to Dorian.

 _What is an artifact from House Pavus doing here?_ The crest is an old, old variant, but one he still recognizes, the two serpents entwined. So similar to the amulet he no longer possesses.

He takes another step, his entire focus on the ring. Carefully, he reaches out and picks it up between two fingers. It’s certainly enchanted, that much he can tell. But it’s not a powerful enchantment, nothing as raw as primal energy, something subtle. What could it be?

“What is that?” Kashek’s voice beside him makes Dorian flinch. So intent had his focus been, he didn’t notice that the Qunari’s discussion with Xenon had ceased, nor did he hear the Inquisitor’s footsteps beside him.

“This belonged to someone from my family, ages ago,” Dorian murmurs, wrapping his fingers around the ring. It is warmer than cold metal should be. Impulsively, he turns to regard the Antiquarian. “How much for the ring?”

“Ah, that. A new acquisition,” the dry, dusty voice croaks. “Its enchantment has not yet been determined. But for a friend of the Inquisitor, one thousand.”

Dorian flinches. It is not nearly the cost of the artifact Kashek now holds within that nondescript box. But it does represent a considerable sum, the lion’s share of what he’s brought.

And yet, the ring feels comfortingly heavy and warm in his palm. Despite his insistence that his family no longer matters to him, Dorian can’t bring himself to leave the heirloom here.

“Done.” The strange, silent child holds out a hand while Dorian counts out the gold and hands it over. The Inquisition can arrange to send payment later for its artifacts, but Dorian as an individual does not bear that extension of courtesy. Cold cash is needed.

“Do you want to look around some more?” Kashek asks with a faint smile, casting his gaze about the Emporium.

“Probably best if I don’t,” Dorian sighs, but he can’t resist one last glance around. A score of magical staves lean against one wall, collecting dust. One in particular almost sings to him, the handle a deep lacquered black etched in gilded abstract designs, with a glittering white gem at its top that glows faintly luminescent in the dimness. He knows how it would feel in his hands, smooth and well-balanced, humming with potential energy. There is no way he could afford such a thing, in this place. And the rest of its untold treasures must remain a mystery as well, sadly.

As they turn to leave, Kashek notices the large mirror along one wall and takes a curious step toward it.

“You’d probably better not,” Dorian warns him gently, placing one hand lightly against the Inquisitor’s forearm to still him. “I’ve heard what that mirror does, and I do rather like your features just where they are.”

Even in the dimness of this room, the reddish flush in the Inquisitor’s face is visible, making Dorian smile. “Let’s go?” he asks, the weariness of their journey suddenly settling over him like a heavy blanket.

The Inquisitor nods, tucks the box under one arm, and leads the way out of the trove of untold treasures. Dorian wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to see it again.

* * *

 

Outside, Aveline greets them with a nod. She does not pry, but merely asks them to follow and leads the way out of the corridor.

Dorian realizes he’s still clutching the ring in one hand, warm and thrumming with a faint energy. Impulsively, he slips it onto a finger. The weight of it is comforting. A calmness floods him for the briefest moment, like the sensation of a deeply indrawn breath. But as quickly as it came, the feeling dissipates, leaving him to wonder if it was merely his imagination.

“Is that safe?” Kashek murmurs beside him, pointing at the ring. “What does it do?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian answers, to both questions. “It’s not an aggressive magic, that much I can tell. Something subtle. Perhaps an illusion of some sort? Let me know if I suddenly appear even more handsome, will you?” He grins impishly.

Kashek doesn’t rise to the bait, his brow furrowed in concern. “Maybe you shouldn’t wear it until we return to Skyhold and you have the time to figure out what it does,” he cautions.

“I’ll be fine,” Dorian waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t want to lose it, and signet rings aren’t used for harmful spells. They’re made to be worn regularly, and have everyday sort of benefits.”

“Maybe your ancestor didn’t consider it harmful, but what if it’s something reckless? What sort of ‘everyday’ needs would a magister have?”

“Well, if I burst into flames or start speaking in tongues, you can say ‘I told you so’,” Dorian mutters sharply. “Until then, leave it?”

Kashek gives him a long, steady stare. He neither agrees nor disagrees, but turns aside after a few moments and increases his pace to move up beside Aveline.

The silent rebuke stings more than if the Inquisitor had chided him again. Annoyance rises. _I’m not a child, to be treated so,_ Dorian thinks. But he can’t hold on to the feeling, letting it slip away like sand sliding through his fingers.

His mood is muted throughout the entire walk to Aveline’s. Even his curiosity about the artifact Kashek carries is dimmed, his temper soured to a worn-out resignation.

Kirkwall is not a massive city, and it’s a short enough walk to the Guard Captain’s home. It’s a modest house, neither particularly large or small. While old and showing the wear of daily life, it is clean and clearly loved. The aroma of something savory and delicious wafts from inside the home, and Dorian’s stomach rumbles with hunger now that he’s on solid land.

A clatter of claws greets them as they step inside, and a large, mottled mabari comes barreling around the corner. Sliding on the stone floor, the beast skids to a stop before them, bowing playfully with its mouth wide in a doggy grin.

Aveline bends to pat the dog companionably on the shoulder. “Hawke’s,” she explains simply. “She left him with us when she went to Skyhold to meet you.”

As if it can understand her speech, the dog straightens up and cocks its head to regard the newcomers. Kashek kneels and holds out a hand for the creature to sniff. It gives his hand a cautious lick and receives a scratch behind the ears as a reward.

“He shouldn’t be any trouble,” she explains as Kashek stands again and resettles the amulet’s box under one arm.

The dog barks amiably and trots toward Dorian, leaning his entire considerable weight against Dorian’s leg asking for affection.

Instead, Dorian sidles away from the beast, ignoring the dog. “You mentioned a chance to wash up?” He asks pointedly. The creature stares up at him, a low growl rumbling through its throat. Dorian gives the creature his best condescending glare, unfazed. “The feeling is mutual,” he says dryly.

“Not much of a dog person?” Aveline asks flatly.

“Not particularly.”

“Hm.” Aveline sniffs, but gestures them to follow her down the hall. “Donnic said he’d fill the wash basin before he left for night patrol. We don’t have a lot of space, but we do have one guest room, and the bed is large.”

The entryway opens into a communal area, featuring a large fireplace, a few armchairs, and a small table with four wooden stools. One side of the room features two doors that lead to other chambers.

She opens the first door and gestures inside. “There’s been a stew on the hearth all day,” she explains needlessly. “When you’ve washed up, come out and we can eat.”

Inside the room, a large wash basin has been filled with water and placed behind a folding screen. Dorian dips his fingertips into the water. Still warm, at least.

“You wash first,” Kashek says as he drops his pack to the floor at the foot of the large bed, his voice flat. Without another word, he carefully stows away the amulet’s box inside his bag, then leaves the room and closes the door behind him.

Dorian’s stomach twists a little, but the feeling is fleeting.

He wonders at that. Shouldn’t he be more worried that Kashek seems to be upset with him? Yet he can’t seem to put forth the effort to summon… well, anything, really. Anything except fatigue.

 _Later,_ he promises himself as he places his own bag beside Kashek’s on the floor at the base of the heavy wooden bed frame. It is certainly large as promised, even big enough to comfortably hold both Dorian and the Inquisitor. Normally, he’d be more affronted by the woman’s casual assumption that sharing a bed was not a concern. What had Varric told her in that letter, precisely? In his tired state though, it is idle curiosity and nothing more.

 _I’m just exhausted._ Dorian reasons with himself. _This journey has taken more out of me than I thought._ It is actually a bit of a relief, to be numb to his usual gnawing worries for a time.

His mind is blissfully blank while he washes, dries, and dons his clothing again. A fresh change of clothes would be nice, but travel demands they pack light. It’s enough for his hair to be free of the coarse layer of salt that caked into it on their journey, to have scrubbed the worst of the grime from his skin.

When he emerges, Kashek and Aveline cease their low conversation. The silence is too abrupt, too sudden. Dorian is no stranger to the sensation of walking into a room where one has been the topic of unsavory discussion. Kashek’s blush betrays his embarrassment at having been caught mid-gossip.

Dorian’s voice is brittle when he speaks. Irritation flares. “I’m done washing,” he states the obvious, just to break the silence. But yet again, he can’t hold onto even his annoyance. It seeps away, replaced with the same drained numbness.

Kashek’s eyes are troubled, his worry plain. He does not reply, but stands and walks past Dorian into the room, closing the door.

The silence is awkward as Dorian settles into an armchair near the fire. The dog has curled up on a mat near the hearth, and it lifts its large head to give him a warning woof. Aveline shushes the beast, receiving a very nearly-human glare in return before the dog settles back to sleep.

She regards him silently for a moment, one hand nervously tracing a bit of patchwork on the arm of her chair.

“Uneasy around a mage?” he guesses.

Aveline snorts. “I spent the better part of a decade with Hawke and two other apostates, one now a wanted fugitive and the other a blood mage. No, you don’t intimidate me.”

Her tone is too accusatory, too derisive. “That wasn’t my intent,” he points out tartly.

“Isn’t it?” The Captain regards him levelly for a few moments. “You don’t match Varric’s description, and I have to wonder why.”

He shakes his head. Suspicion again, following him all the way to Kirkwall. He isn’t even annoyed with it anymore. “I don’t know what the dwarf told you, but I am so dreadfully sorry I don’t live up to your expectations.”

“Yes, well.” She seems about to say something else, but closes her mouth in a firm line, choosing instead to stare silently at the fire for a few moments. Eventually, she stands and whistles to the dog. Obediently, the beast heaves itself up off the rug and follows her to the front door. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she explains as she lets the dog out and follows.

Dorian sighs. Even here, he is regarded with wariness. It doesn’t even bother him now, not anymore. Instead, a weary lassitude has settled into his limbs. The fire is warm after their long journey, the chair is rather cozy, and the disconcerting sensation of the ground swaying beneath his feet has finally ceased. For the first time in days, he’s truly comfortable.

He doesn’t even realize he’s begun to doze until the sound of a door closing startles him back to awareness. Aveline, returning with the dog. The creature gives Dorian one long, angry glance, then settles back into its spot by the fire. The Guard Captain does not greet him, settling silently into her chair.

Kashek’s entrance saves them both from further awkward conversation. Aveline serves stew in plain wooden bowls, simple but hearty fare. She makes polite small talk with the Inquisitor while they eat, but both of them cast odd glances in Dorian’s direction from time to time. In particular, Kashek’s gaze is concerned, his brow furrowed thoughtfully when he regards Dorian across the small table.

For his part, Dorian eats in silence, then woodenly thanks Aveline and declares his intent to retire for the evening. It is early yet, but a lethargy clings to him, a yawning hollow sensation that makes the bed beckon sweetly.

He’s not surprised when Kashek follows soon after. Dorian hasn’t even taken three steps into the room when the Qunari slips through the door and closes it behind him.

“We need to talk, Dorian.”

Weary irritation gnaws for a moment, then fades as Dorian sighs. “And those words always lead to such pleasant conversations.” The reply is heavy with sarcasm. “Can it wait? I’m exhausted.”

Strange. Just this morning on the ship, he’d been dying for the chance to be alone with Kashek, but now he only wants to sleep. He can clearly recall his eagerness for a stolen evening together, but is too tired to summon the same emotions now.

“No, it won’t wait,” Kashek says firmly, taking a step further into the room. “I’m worried about you.”

“Touching.” Dorian’s voice is acerbic, a long-practiced disdain he’s perfected over the years. “You can worry while I sleep, then.” He sits on the bed and slips off a boot.

“Dorian.” The Inquisitor’s voice is strained. He moves closer, to stand in front of Dorian. “Take off that ring.”

“What?” Dorian pauses midway through pulling off his other boot. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Right now, there’s someone else looking out of your eyes, and it started today. Humor me. Take off the ring.”

 _No._ The denial echoes in his mind, stubbornly. A power play, that’s all this is. “Is this because I didn’t obey you before? I’m fine, just tired.”

“No, you’re not. I don’t think you even realize how… empty you look, how hollow you sound. Normally, you’d be angry right now, wouldn’t you?”

“I am angry,” Dorian insists, but even he knows it’s a lie. He’s not anything, except bone-weary.

“Please,” Kashek asks quietly. “I will take it from you if I must.”

There, that’s the anger. For the briefest moment, a rush of fury burns inside, blazing hot and burning away to nothing within a second. “You can try.”

“Would you stop me?”

Dorian shakes his head. “This conversation is ridiculous. Let’s sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“No.” The Inquisitor reaches for him, but his resolve falters, hesitating. Dorian smacks his hand aside. Disbelief, for a moment. He didn’t think Kashek would truly raise a hand to take the ring by force.

Suddenly, discomfort settles over Dorian like a fog. This is all wrong. The world tilts strangely, as if he is no longer even inside his own body. He can’t remain here in this room or near this man a moment longer. Hurriedly, Dorian shoves his boot back on. He stands and flees, snatching up his belt and pouch from the table by the door on his way out.

“Dorian!” Kashek’s voice calls behind him, but he’s already halfway out the door. He lets it slam behind him.

Outside, night has fallen. The clouds that have hung in the sky threateningly for days, following them from Jader, are finally fulfilling their promise of rain. It’s not a downpour, but instead a fine, freezing mist. The night air is too cold to be outside without a cloak, but he refuses to re-enter the house. Quickly, before the Inquisitor can give chase, Dorian slips around a corner and down a narrow alley.

Kirkwall is not entirely unfamiliar, from his previous visit here. Still, he does not know it terribly well. Dorian flees, with no direction in mind except _away_. His skin is too tight, like an outgrown shirt, his mind a terrible gaping abyss. He’s not even angry anymore. Only tired, and Kashek will not let him sleep. It’s only logical to leave, isn’t it? Perhaps he can find an inn.

Dorian wanders for a time, shivering in the chill evening damp. It’s not long until a fine sheen of icy mist coats his arms and face. He has to get indoors again. Freezing to death on the winter streets of the City of Chains is not how he would like to die. His steps have carried him to Lowtown, and the doors of the Hanged Man beckon. They swing open as a pair of patrons exit, laughing. The light spilling onto the street promises warmth, a stiff drink, and company more pleasant than what he’s left behind him.

But no. It’s the first place anyone will look for him, in the taverns and pubs. It’s unlikely Kashek will chase him this far. After all, Aveline seemed quite insistent on keeping the Qunari far from trouble, and Kashek is ever the law-abiding citizen. But it’s still feasible that the Guard Captain may still send someone to fetch him, and the Hanged Man is too obvious a shelter.

 _Darktown,_ he thinks. At least it’s underground, away from this rain that turns the cobbles to slick, dangerous footing and freezes on his skin. The narrow maze of haphazard corridors makes for a perfect hiding place. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s spent the evening out of proper doors, in a slum with the rabble. For a time, he _was_ the rabble.

It takes him some wandering to find the entrance, but he walks down the narrow steps, instantly warmer out of the wind and rain. A chill still hangs in the air here, underground and surrounded by earth, and he shivers.

 _This is foolish,_ he thinks. _I should go back._ But he finds himself reluctant to admit defeat. _Why so stubborn over such a small thing?_ He twists the ring on his finger, its weight reassuring, warming his skin where it touches.

It’s not about the ring though, not really. It’s about power, about control. The Inquisitor is using the ring in a petty bid for dominance, something that Dorian will not allow. He follows because he chooses to, not because he is weak. The Inquisitor is his supervisor but not his master.

The ring is a symbol of that assertion, nothing more and nothing less. If he returns, they will fight again unless Dorian relents, which he refuses to do. It’s simple, when laid out so clearly.

So what now? What of his future with the Inquisition? Is this his resignation? If not, how can he bear to return? Will he sacrifice his own dignity for the cause? Such thoughts should concern him, a small voice in the back of his mind warns. And yet, he only feels the cold, heavy weight of mere logic. No anger, no indignation.

 _A worry for later._ For now, he needs a distraction, something to calm the thoughts that chase themselves in circles. And he knows just the thing, if it can be found down here.

 

* * *

 

 

Some hours later, Dorian takes his leave of the Darktown scoundrels he’s befriended this night. Well, perhaps _befriended_ is too strong a word. However, they have a small fire, and whiskey so cheap and foul it should be illegal. But it’s strong, and burns his throat pleasantly on the way down, warming him to his fingertips. It’s also banished his weariness, giving him a second wind of energy among this motley company.

He scoops up his winnings from their dice game and shoves the coins into his pouch. Standing, Dorian stretches, then glances up and down the length of the narrow Darktown alley. He can’t see the sky down here, but he knows that dawn draws closer, and it’s time he made a decision regarding the Inquisitor. The ship leaves mid-morning, and Dorian must decide if he will be on it.

He still does not know which choice he will make. Swallow his pride, become a meek sycophant, and remain with the Inquisition for the greater good? Or stand his ground and leave?

The world tips suddenly sideways when he takes a step. Perhaps that whiskey was even stronger than he’d thought. He catches his balance and waves to the group of brigands as he leaves. Criminals every single one, most likely. But still, there is a sort of honor amongst those forced out onto the streets at night, particularly in the winter. He feels no fear of them, and calls out a farewell as he tries to find his way out of the subterranean maze.

Eventually, he locates the exit to Lowtown and emerges. It’s still night, the loneliest stretch a few hours before dawn. The cold drizzle has ceased, but the wind blows chill and the streets have hardened into a slick sheet of ice. Dorian picks his way carefully across the cobblestones, trying to find a street sign or landmark he recognizes. If he can make his way to a main street, he’s certain he can find his way back to Aveline’s home.

He doesn’t relish the idea of the confrontation to come, but neither does he dread it with the worry he usually would. It is necessary, no matter what his choice will be. He could just take a different path and never return; the thought has crossed his mind. Slip quietly away, travel where he will. He’s built a home at Skyhold, but it would not be the first one he’s abandoned.

There are his students of course, but Fiona has other capable tutors.

Would he even truly be missed, if he never returned?

The answer is yes, or course. Kashek at least would feel his absence. It would be cruel to leave without saying goodbye at least. So he will confront the Inquisitor, and make his decision then.

Inexplicable, his apathy. Only yesterday, the idea of leaving the Inquisitor’s side was unthinkable, something that would have wounded Dorian deeply. But after the events of this night, an icy core has settled within him, dulling that ache and allowing him to think clearly for once, without the distraction of foolish passions.

The streets are nearly empty now, only a few suspicious-looking individuals still out. He catches sight of a guard and turns a corner before the man can see him. If Aveline has sent anyone to look for him, Dorian would rather not be dragged back to the Guard Captain like a runaway child.

Finally, he sees the familiar sign of the Hanged Man, and catches his bearings. Retracing his steps back to Aveline’s from here should be simple enough.

Later, Dorian would wonder how that night might have ended if it hadn’t been for a single lowly cutpurse.

He’s very nearly to Aveline’s when it happens. Taking a shortcut through a nearby alley, he hears voices in the street outside the Guard Captain’s home. They are speaking in hushed tones, but the whistling wind carries the words to him.

“We’ve searched Hightown, and there’s no sign of him at any of the inns or the Rose.” An unfamiliar voice, male.

“He wouldn’t be at the Blooming Rose,” Kashek replies, certainty in his voice, but with a tense weight hanging on his words. “I’d have thought the Hanged Man, but I checked it twice.”

 _The Inquisitor went out looking for me?_ Dorian wonders in mild surprise. He’d been certain the Qunari would heed Aveline’s warning and stay indoors after dark.

“I still don’t think you should have been out on your own,” Aveline, grim. “I only agreed on the possibility of finding him quickly, for your sake, Inquisitor. But my searches of Darktown turned up nothing. That warren is such a rat’s nest of tunnels that it’s impossible to conduct a full search with two people, though.”

“Dorian, where are you?” The Inquisitor’s rhetorical question is low, raw with a ragged pain, so quiet that the words are difficult to make out in the icy wind.

Dorian is nearly to the mouth of the alley when he hears a footstep behind him, the thin sheet of ice cracking under the man’s boot. He whirls away as the man lunges toward him, a knife in one hand.

It’s one of the men from Darktown. _So much for honor among outcasts_ , Dorian thinks grimly as he faces the man and takes a step backward to put distance between them. He expects a rush of anger, of indignation, but only feels a tired resignation.

“I’ll be taking back our coins now,” the man hisses, teeth bared in a snarl.

“You can try,” Dorian retorts, readying energy for a spell and taking another step back. Two more and he’ll be in the street, visible to the guards.

The man barks a laugh. “You don’t even have a weapon,” he taunts.

“Idiot. I _am_ the weapon.” Dorian raises a hand and hurls a crackling bolt of lightning at the man. Not enough to kill, of course. He has no desire to land himself in jail on murder charges. But it should effectively stun the cutpurse.

The bolt strikes true, and the man’s back arches painfully as he cries out in pain. He drops the knife and screams. “Mage!”

“Yes, I am,” Dorian says calmly, pulling more mana and tossing a sleep spell in the man’s direction. A small mercy. The thief crumples to the frozen, dirt-packed ground of the alley just as a rush of footsteps announces the arrival of the guards.

“Dorian!” The Inquisitor calls, relief and shock warring in his words.

He turns to see Aveline and Kashek flanked by three guards, all staring at him, aghast. “What have you done?” the Captain hisses as she catches sight of the limp form behind him.

Two guards pull their swords, stepping forward.

“It’s a sleep spell,” Dorian explains in disdain. “He’s fine. Not that he deserves it.”

“Stand down, mage,” One of the guards commands grimly, sword bared, and Dorian stares at the woman in disbelief.

“I am,” he steps aside and gestures at the unconscious thief. “He tried to mug me. I’m the victim here,” he reminds them pointedly.

“And yet you still ready your magic?” she scoffs, and makes a small gesture with her free hand.

Suddenly and frighteningly, Dorian feels his connection to the Fade severed, the energy he’d still been holding pooled within him gone in the blink of an eye.

It’s like a light snuffed out, a missed step in the dark. It takes him a second to realize what’s happened, a tense moment in which the Inquisitor steps in front of the guardswoman.

“He’s not a threat, Alia,” the Qunari says, voice firm. “Put your sword away.”

Dorian finds his tongue. “You sent Templars after me?” Somewhere, deep down inside, he knows he should be hurt, but only mild surprise rises. Even that doesn’t last when the same deadened exhaustion washes over him again.

Kashek turns his back on the guard, not even waiting to see if she obeys him. When his eyes meet Dorian’s, they are conflicted, the battle within them noticeable even in the faint moonlight. Worry, relief, pity, and hurt mingle in that golden gaze.

Dorian waits for the wrenching twist in his gut that he always feels when Kashek looks at him with wounded eyes, but it does not come. The cold ball of numbness still sits heavily within him, and he feels nothing.

“Not Templars,” Kashek says softly, and the hitch in his voice betrays his pain at Dorian’s blank stare. “A _former_ templar, now one of Aveline’s guards. One of the only three we could scrape up to volunteer for the search on short notice.”

While this exchange has gone on, one guardswoman slipped cautiously past Dorian to check the cutpurse’s pulse. When she verifies he is alive, the woman slings the slim man across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “Captain?”

“You and Donnic take him in,” Aveline commands wearily. “We’ll charge him when he awakens.”

The woman nods and heads off down the street with the thief, followed by the male guard. The ex-Templar remains. Though she’s sheathed her weapon, the guard still glares at him through narrow, suspicious eyes.

“Dorian.” Kashek stands before him, shoulders set firmly, arms held out before him like one would approach an angry beast. “I need you to take off that ring.”

“This again? In front of the guards?” Dorian scoffs. He’d expected the power play, but not here, before they even got indoors. “You just can’t stand the fact that I refused to obey you, can you?”

“It’s dangerous, Dorian. As your superior, I command you to remove it. That’s an order.”

 _No._ The response is instinctive, a voice in his mind that doesn’t seem entirely his own. But still, a compulsion he cannot refuse.

“Or what?” He bares his teeth in a defiant smile and crosses his arms, standing tall and proud in the face of the Inquisitor’s intimidation.

Kashek’s response is almost a whisper, a tired sorrow hanging on the words. “Or I will take it from you, if I must. I don’t want to. But you haven’t been you since that thing went onto your finger.”

Dorian is all too aware of how precarious this situation has become. Without his magic or at least a weapon, he cannot hope to fend off the Qunari in a physical altercation. The ex-Templar stands ready behind Kashek, but does not intervene other than continuing to suppress Dorian’s abilities. Aveline watches in grim determination, jaw set and mouth in a hard, firm line.

Still, Dorian holds his ground. “You’ll use Templars against me? Coward.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to save you, Dorian. Even from yourself.” Kashek takes a single cautious step forward. “I won’t give up on you, not ever.”

“I don’t care,” Dorian says casually, and realizes that right now, the words are truth. How had he been so deluded to get so wrapped up in this man? He can see things so clearly now, through the numbness that dulls his former passions and allows him to think logically. “You can do whatever you want, it doesn’t concern me.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes are haunted at Dorian’s careless cruelty. “I won’t ask again,” he says wearily. “Take off that ring or I _will_ take it from you.”

Dorian is outmatched, bereft of his magic or even his staff for physical defense. That much is obvious. He will lose a struggle, without any doubt.

“Fine,” Dorian says coldly. “I will take off the ring for now, but then I will leave. I will fetch my things from Aveline’s and you will never see me again.”

Kashek flinches, as if physically struck. Dorian glares up at the Qunari while he holds up his hand defiantly and slips the ring off his finger.

It’s like a blow to the head, a sudden flash of light behind his eyes and a physical pain worse than any headache he’s ever felt. Dorian feels his fingers loosen around the ring, hears the echo of the metallic ringing when it hits the icy ground and bounces away.

That would be bad enough, if that were all of it. But no, he’s assaulted by wave after wave of searing, blinding emotion. Every single feeling Dorian should have experienced since putting on the ring, it all floods his mind at once, tenfold. All that the artifact suppressed is now loosed on him in a chaotic tangle. Anger, frustration, hurt, indignation. The sweet frisson of excitement he should have felt at the prospect of the first night alone with Kashek. A bitter twist of pain mingled with affection, when the Inquisitor said he would not give up on him. And most of all, shame, deep and all-consuming. Regret at heartless words that he can never take away, a near-physical ache at the look of hurt he’d caused in Kashek’s eyes.

It’s too much, all at once. Dizzy, he sways on his feet, eyes closed against the surge of pain and the endless tide of emotions.

The arms that steady him are warm even in the cool night air, solid and gentle as they wrap around him. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.” The Inquisitor’s voice, a low rumble against his ear.

Words are difficult, but Dorian manages a few. “No, it’s not.” It won’t be okay ever again. How can it be, after his foolishness? Storming out like that, like a stubborn and petulant child. His cold, heartless words, callous and thoughtlessly cruel. Humiliation, guilt, and anger at himself war for dominance, each washing over him in turn. Violent tremors seize him as the emotional assault batters him relentlessly.

Fatigue grips Dorian when the tremors cease, his mind shutting down after the onslaught. He feels himself losing consciousness, a deep and vast darkness beckoning. Gratefully, he slips into that blessed emptiness while the Inquisitor’s embrace keeps him from collapsing onto the frozen ground.

As he drifts away, Dorian realizes there’s only one feeling left, and this time he does not fear to give it a name. Love, fierce and possessive and tender all at once… and all-consuming. It is everything he is, in this moment, held tightly by the gentle, strong soul he’s managed to capture despite himself.

Dorian clings to that feeling, to that realization, letting it course through him while consciousness flees completely and everything goes pleasantly dark.

 

* * *

 

 

It is not really a surprise to awaken in Aveline’s home, though he’d almost have expected a cell, after last night.

He has no way of knowing what time it is, but it is still dark around the edges of the shuttered window in the opposite wall. The only light is a dim lantern, burning still on a table in the corner. A heavy quilt is tucked tightly about him, his head resting on an overstuffed down pillow. He’s still wearing the clothes he had on last night, only his boots removed.

Dorian blinks away the sleep, yawning as he sits up in the large bed. His head pounds as if he’d been drinking heavily the night before, more so than he actually did.

A glance around the room reveals the Inquisitor, curled in a too-small armchair in the corner, chin resting on his chest while he sleeps. He, too, is still wearing much of his clothing from the evening before; a loose shirt, vest, and trousers, as if he only had the energy to pull off his coat and boots before falling into the chair. Reflecting the lamplight and resting against his chest is a pendant, fallen loose of his shirt. Odd, Kashek doesn’t seem like the type to wear jewelry. Even stranger is the nature of the piece, a single seashell on a plain strip of leather, a shimmering pink spiral the size of a gold royal.

It’s incongruous amongst the dark, simple clothing the Inquisitor favors. Dorian wonders if there’s a story there. A gift from a former lover, perhaps? Icy shards of jealousy pierce his chest at the thought. Not at the possibility that the Inquisitor had someone before him. That is almost a certainty, and bothers Dorian little. No, what burns so fiercely is the thought that Kashek still feels strongly enough to wear a keepsake, even now. The Qunari may care little for aesthetics, but he is a sentimental sort, and there’s almost certainly something more behind that necklace.

The Inquisitor stirs slightly, breaking Dorian’s chain of thought. The Qunari shifts in the uncomfortable chair. Even asleep, his brow furrows in worry and dark shadows show under his eyes.

Dorian’s heart pauses for a moment, his chest tightening. His fault. How can he face Kashek now, after last night? There is no going back, when one acts as reckless as Dorian did. Trying on a magical artifact without knowing its purpose is utter stupidity, and he should have known better. Now, with a clear mind, he wonders at the allure of the thing, recalls how it felt so warm and inviting in his palm, almost beckoning him to wear it. A common enough enchantment, and one that should never have enthralled him.

He could blame it on the exhaustion of the long and unpleasant sea voyage, or on the distraction of their mission. But it had been sheer carelessness, nothing more and nothing less. Foolish of him.

What would have happened to him, if Kashek hadn’t fought for him and forced his hand? Would he be an empty shell even now, a ghost of himself setting out on his own again after leaving the Inquisition? Drinking in a Kirkwall tavern while he pondered his next move?

He’d come within a razor’s edge of that fate, saved only by the determination of the Qunari in that chair.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs to himself, shaking his head.

The Inquisitor is a light sleeper, apparently. Kashek stirs, shifting in the chair, his eyes opening. It hurts, to meet that gaze. Shame twists Dorian’s insides into a knot as the Inquisitor’s eyes meet his own. But there is no judgment there. Instead, the Qunari’s face lights up with a heartbreaking smile.

“How can you still smile?” Dorian asks him, voice cracked and rough with sleep.

“Because you’re the one looking out of your eyes again,” Kashek’s grin widens as he uncurls in the chair, stretching his legs before him. “Last night, there was no one there.” As abruptly as it appeared, the smile fades. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Dorian sighs and shifts his gaze down to his hands, unable to bear the Inquisitor’s regard any longer. “Fasta vass, I was an ass.”

“Yes, you were,” Kashek agrees, but it is with fondness rather than condescension. “But it’s over now.”

“Is it?” Dorian looks up to meet the Inquisitor’s eyes again, pulling the blanket tightly about his shoulders as if it can protect him. “How can you just dismiss everything I said, everything I did?” He’d so coldly told Kashek he didn’t care, that he could leave without even looking back. If the Inquisitor had said those same things, the memories would haunt him. To this day, Dorian still recalls every heartless word of a particularly cruel former lover, every disdainful inflection in the man’s voice during that vicious conversation.

And that had been something so much less than this.

“It wasn’t you,” Kashek says, interrupting Dorian’s dark musings.

He could just accept that, agree with the sentiment, but it’s not really true. “But it was,” Dorian admits, guilt gnawing at him. “At that moment, I felt… nothing. Last night, that was still me. I wasn’t possessed, not an abomination. It was just a numb, cold version of myself.”

Kashek shakes his head, stands, and crosses the few steps to sit on the edge of the bed. “Then it wasn’t really you,” he repeats.

When Dorian doesn’t respond, the Inquisitor sighs. “One thing you do exceptionally well, Dorian, is _feel_. No matter how much you don’t want to, sometimes. You’re passionate about _everything_. So if you aren’t that, then you aren’t you.”

It’s painful, to have your own weaknesses laid bare by someone else. To realize someone knows you that well, it leaves you raw.

“I’m so sorry, Kashek.” The words are difficult to say, to admit how deeply his regret runs. “I jeopardized our mission with my carelessness. And I put you in danger when you left to search Kirkwall’s streets.”

“I can handle a few drunks, if it came to that,” the Inquisitor points out.

Dorian continues. He has to say it now, before he comes to his senses. “You shouldn’t have needed to. And worst of all, I said… such awful things, things you don’t deserve. Things I don’t really mean.” He shakes his head. “And you stood there and let me say them, and responded with kindness.”

“Worth it, if that’s what finally makes you realize how I feel about you.”

Dorian’s breath catches. How can the Inquisitor say such things so casually?

So this is it, then. The conversation Dorian both desires and dreads. The moment they decide their path. He wishes so desperately that it wasn’t after the awkwardness of last night, but he’s made this bed. His throat suddenly dry, Dorian swallows back his fear. “And what is that, after last night?”

“Nothing has changed. One night of strangeness caused by a cursed artifact isn’t going to destroy everything I feel.” The Inquisitor’s voice is weary, almost sad. “I don’t know how to make it any clearer. I…” he turns aside, taking a long, deep breath. A small shake of his head, as if deciding something for himself. “I care about you, more than you seem willing to admit. I think you know that.”

Truth, then. Why so hard to say? “I do,” Dorian manages. Against all odds, despite those old doubts plucking at him and telling Dorian he doesn’t deserve to be loved, he knows. “Kashek…” he takes a deep breath, steadying his nerves, trying to still his heart while it beats like a frightened rabbit’s. “Where do you want this to go?”

Kashek reaches out, taking Dorian’s hand gently. Warm as always, the Inquisitor’s skin against his chilled fingers. “I think that decision is up to you,” Kashek says quietly, meeting Dorian’s eyes with a steady gaze. “I’m greedy, I think. I want everything you’re willing to give. Wherever that leaves us.”

Hard to breathe, suddenly. He thought he was ready for this discussion, but he’s not. Not yet. Soon, perhaps, but not today. Instead, he tightens his grasp on the Inquisitor’s hand. “I don’t know where it leaves us,” he admits hoarsely. “But I think I’d like to figure it out, if you can be patient.”

“I’d like that,” Kashek smiles softly.

Despite himself, Dorian yawns suddenly, reaching up to cover his mouth with his free hand. The Inquisitor chuckles at the look of sheepish surprise on his face.

“You’ve only had an hour or two of rest,” Kashek murmurs. “Go back to sleep. Aveline will wake us when she leaves for her mid-morning shift, an hour before we need to board the ship. You can catch a few more hours’ sleep.”

Impulsively, Dorian tugs on the Inquisitor’s hand, pulling him in closer. “Only if you don’t sleep in the chair this time.” His mouth curves into a teasing smile.

Kashek returns the grin. “I think I can manage that.”

It takes a bit of arranging, detangling the blankets and settling them back over them both, but a few minutes later, Dorian and Kashek are curled up together beneath the heavy quilt. It’s… nice, just this simple contact. The Qunari is a pleasant, heavy warmth against his back, their hands laced together in front of him.

“I’m glad you came back,” the Inquisitor says softly against the back of Dorian’s neck.

“Me too. I didn’t like that Dorian much,” he admits. He closes his eyes with a yawn. So comfortable. “I don’t think I said thank you,” he murmurs sleepily, “for dragging me back. For fighting.”

“You didn’t have to.” The Inquisitor squeezes his hand lightly. “Now go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. With one final yawn, Dorian drifts peacefully into dreams.

* * *

 

It feels like only a few moments have passed when he awakens to a heavy knocking on the door.

“I’m leaving soon,” the Guard Captain’s voice comes through the door. “If you want breakfast, you’d better be out here in a few minutes.”

Dorian groans and yawns. Somehow during the night, they’ve moved about and his head now rests on Kashek’s shoulder, the Inquisitor lying on his back and Dorian’s arm draped artlessly across his chest. It would be an even more interesting position if they weren’t both still nearly fully-clothed.

“Good morning,” the Inquisitor murmurs, his voice gravelly from sleep.

Dorian grimaces, rubbing his eyes to wake himself up. “Morning yes. Not sure about good.”

Kashek’s dreamy smile fades, and Dorian chides himself for his thoughtless words. “I just meant waking up,” he explains awkwardly. “Not a morning person.” He grasps the Inquisitor’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “This part is quite nice, though.”

“Oh, is it now?” The Inquisitor raises an eyebrow and gives Dorian a look that makes his breath catch.

Still half-asleep, it makes him bold. Dorian shifts, lifting himself up on one arm so he can lean in for a kiss. Kashek’s lips are yielding, eager, breathless.

“Perhaps I could get used to mornings,” Dorian murmurs when they part. “That’s a rather pleasant way to wake up.”

“Despite the mutual morning breath?” Kashek grins.

Dorian barks a laugh. “Yes, even so.” He sighs and sits up fully. “I suppose we should go eat breakfast,” he says heavily. “I owe the Guard Captain quite an apology.”

“Well, I hope it’s not the same one I got,” Kashek teases.

With a chuckle, Dorian slips out of the bed and raises an eyebrow at him. “That sounds like one of my lines. I think I’m a bad influence on you, Inquisitor.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” the Qunari responds easily as he shifts and gets up. “But the best kind of bad influence.”

“Well, that goes unsaid,” Dorian quips. “I’m the best everything, of course.” He peers into the small mirror on the side table and tries to comb his hair down with his fingers. “I will say I’m surprised I didn’t end up taken in by the guard, after that incident with the cutpurse last night and only my word against an unconscious man’s.”

“Well, Alia did want to take you in,” Kashek admits as he scrubs his face with a washcloth dipped into the water basin. “But that particular thief is known to the guard. It’s not his first mugging, but according to Kirkwall’s laws you should have been charged for your attack on him regardless. Officially, they relinquished you to the Inquisition for judgment.”

Dorian gives up on his hair for now and groans. “So our cover is blown, isn’t it?”

“Yep.” The Inquisitor doesn’t seem much fazed by it, still in pleasant spirits. “Technically, only the guards from last night know, but I’m sure the news has spread by now. Still, we’re leaving this morning anyway. It’ll be fine.”

Dorian sighs. Another tally mark against last night’s folly. When he turns, he finds Kashek regarding him with a foolish grin.

“What?”

“I think last night counts as our first fight,” the Inquisitor says thoughtfully.

Dorian pauses in the middle of straightening out his mustache. “I suppose,” he answers slowly.

“And we’re okay.” Kashek smiles widely and grasps Dorian’s hand, pulling him into a quick embrace.

“You seem awfully giddy about a fight,” Dorian mutters, though he doesn’t resist.

“Because we made it. Because surviving an argument makes this… more real.”

Dorian’s heartbeat races, realizing the truth of the words. Unable to think of a response, he pulls away, but gently. The Inquisitor lets him go.

As he slips from the embrace, Dorian’s eye catches on the seashell necklace again. “What’s this?” he asks, tapping it lightly.

Kashek’s gaze goes distant and hollow for a moment, his hand flying up to grasp the pendant and tuck it back under his shirt. “It’s… a long story. One I will tell you, I promise. But not today.”

Dorian feels his insides twist. Jealousy, pure and simple. There is a story here, one the Inquisitor is unwilling to tell. With a grimace, he turns away, but Kashek catches his hand and pulls him back.

“Don’t let this be our second argument, please?” The Inquisitor’s eyes are pained. “I know what you’re thinking. It was a gift from my sister. I’ll tell you the rest later, but this morning… it’s a good day. Leave this story for later, please?”

Suddenly, Dorian feels foolish and ashamed, prying and prodding into things he shouldn’t. He didn’t even know Kashek had a sister. But the grief in those eyes… it is not a pleasant memory, one Dorian does not want to make the Inquisitor recall.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes for the second time in a handful of hours. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

The Inquisitor gives him a soft smile and leans in to place a quick, chaste kiss on his cheek. “I think we’re both just still touchy from last night. Let’s forget it for now, and go eat breakfast.”

“I believe I can go along with that plan,” Dorian agrees with a grin.

The smile fades when he remembers how badly he needs to apologize to Aveline. Dorian steels himself as Kashek opens the door, and follows him out into the common room. Aveline is seated at the small table eating breakfast, along with one of the guards from last night, the sole male of the group.

“Good morning,” the man greets them amiably. “We didn’t get properly introduced last night. Donnic, Aveline’s husband. I trust you feel better?”

Dorian manages a small smile. “Much.” He turns to Aveline. “Captain. I apologize for my actions last night. I… wasn’t myself.”

“Obviously,” the woman snorts and points at the table. “The Inquisitor explained about the ring, and trust me, I’ve seen stranger things.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Apology accepted. Sit, eat.”

Grateful that the matter is settled so simply, Dorian obeys. Like dinner the evening before, the meal is plain but solid fare, dense hearth cakes made with rolled oats, accompanied by links of spiced sausage. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kashek ladling an overly-generous portion of honey onto his hearth cake. _Maker, that man’s sweet tooth knows no limits._ Dorian can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face as he waits for the Inquisitor to finish and pass the honey.

While he waits, the mabari comes trotting into the room from the other open door. It regards Dorian levelly for a moment, then cautiously approaches and sniffs him all over. Giving a small whuff, the dog leans its massive head against his arm.

“It appears he likes you better today,” Aveline notes as Dorian relents and pats the beast’s shoulder awkwardly.

“I don’t blame him,” Dorian agrees. “Even I didn’t like myself much yesterday.”

Aveline huffs her agreement, and the conversation turns to idle chatter until it’s time to pack up and take their leave.

It’s a poignant feeling, leaving the Guard Captain’s home. She may not be an effusive woman, but she has been kind nonetheless. Not many would open their home to a strange Qunari and a Tevinter mage, especially in Kirkwall. And though he’s not terribly thrilled at the prospect of a second, even longer sea journey, the presence of the Inquisitor makes it seem more bearable.

As they make their way to the docks, Dorian realizes Kashek’s assumption was correct. News of their presence has spread. A small crowd has gathered, looking on with avid stares and whispers that leave little doubt they recognize the Inquisitor. Thankfully, none approach, and they are able to board the ship with little hassle.

With Kirkwall a major exodus from the Marches and Val Royeaux a popular destination, they’ve managed a proper passenger ship this time, with a real cabin. It’s still somewhat small, but rather less cramped than their last one, shared with two chatty young Marcher nobles on their way to visit relatives in Val Firmin. The bunks themselves are not much larger than the ones on the journey here, but at least they aren’t stacked atop one another.

The swaying of this ship is less pronounced as well, a small blessing. He still finds it more tolerable to stay above deck, leaning against the railing with the cool wind on his cheeks. The nausea never leaves entirely, even if it’s less vicious than their trip from Jader. While packing up his supplies before they left, Dorian had discovered a small tin of dried leaves in his things. A cautious sniff had revealed their purpose. Mint. A silent, thoughtful gift. Kashek never mentions it.

Still, despite his queasiness, Dorian is not oblivious to the whispers and sidelong glances. Everyone aboard this ship knows the Inquisitor sails with them, knows Dorian is the Inquisition’s Tevinter mage. And so he maintains a cautious distance from Kashek. Gossip at Skyhold is one thing, but rumors here could spell disaster for the Inquisition, could sabotage a potential alliance. They sail with nobility on this journey, possible future allies.

It’s only logical to keep a casual, businesslike appearance, but it still aches after their newfound closeness.

The second day of the journey, Dorian finds something else at the bottom of his pack. His hand brushes it while rummaging for the tin of mint, and he knows the feel of it instantly. He pulls away as if stung, and upends the entire contents of the bag on the floor. It clatters out, rolling away to lodge in a knot of the wooden planking. There is a small box in the bag as well, jostled open at some point before this.

Kashek finds him a few minutes later, leaning on the railing and holding the ring in one palm, gleaming and nestled in the handkerchief that keeps the metal from touching his skin.

“Dorian,” the Inquisitor’s voice is strained, but he doesn’t need to continue.

“Not to worry. I’m not wearing this thing ever again,” he shakes his head. “Now that I’m aware of its enchantment, I can resist its call. But why did you even put it back among my things?”

Kashek sighs, leaning on the railing beside him. “It’s yours, bought and paid for. I couldn’t get rid of it, not without your consent.”

_Honorable as ever._

“Who would even make such a thing?” Kashek wonders softly. Perhaps the question is rhetorical, but Dorian answers anyway.

“I’ve thought about it a great deal. What if my ancestor didn’t make it for themselves? The way it beckons to be worn, the resistance to removing it once it's on... they lead me to believe it was intended for another. If my father knew this was an option for me, would he have chosen it? Would he have preferred a blank, tractable husk of a son? All the emotional side effects of a Tranquil, but still able to access the Fade and retain all magical skill? No more pesky rebelliousness, no more deviant passions. The perfect heir.”

Kashek’s hands tighten on the railing, knuckles going white with his grip. “No. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Neither do I,” Dorian admits. “Or maybe it _was_ made for my ancestor’s own use. Perhaps he was so disgusted with his own feelings that he chose to suppress them entirely.”

“Maybe not disgusted, but afraid,” Kashek suggests softly.

That sort of fear is one Dorian knows all too well. But he steels his resolve. He’s made the choice not to run from what’s in his heart, and will stay his course. “I’ll never know,” Dorian replies, “but I want nothing to do with such magic.”

With a sigh, he extends his hand over the railing and loosens his grasp, letting the ring fall into the depths below. One thousand coins, lost. He could have kept it, could have sold it even. But not all magic should be preserved, and this artifact belongs at the bottom of the Waking Sea, far from anyone’s grasp.

“It’s disheartening, to realize our exalted ancestors were as fallible and petty as my father,” Dorian laments. “Beneath our pride, our pedigree, will intolerance and shame forever remain the Pavus legacy?”

“Perhaps the chain breaks with you,” the Inquisitor offers. He hesitates, then adds, “with us.”

There is an implication there that Dorian does not miss. The suggestion that there is more of a future to this, to the two of them, than just the now. That there may be more, after.

The thought is a pleasant one, warming him from the inside out despite the freezing chill in the sea air. For a moment, the euphoria even banishes his lingering seasickness.

The smile that tugs on Dorian’s lips is instinctive, unstoppable. “Us,” he says quietly. “It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Very much so,” the Inquisitor grins back at him, a reddish flush creeping up into his face.

Dorian’s smile widens, and he lowers his voice. “When we get back to Skyhold, perhaps I’ll finally get to show you what ‘us’ fully entails.” He gives the Inquisitor a knowing smirk and a raised eyebrow. As he expected, Kashek’s blush deepens to a vibrant crimson, covering his freckled cheeks and even the delicate points of his ears.

Dorian laughs, the sound carried away by the sea winds. Soon enough, at Adamant, they will throw themselves yet again into the path of danger. But for now, his spirits are light after their ordeal. The ring showed him one thing above all, that his feelings are not something to flee, that they are worth having.

It is a new path for him, but as he glances at the still-flustered Qunari beside him, he smiles at the thought that it will not be a lonely one.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece did introduce a couple of minor loose plot points that will be resolved in the next fic, I promise! (The Veil-strengthening amulet and Kashek's pendant will both make return appearances).


End file.
